


beat

by Augustus



Category: Five (Band), Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-11
Updated: 2002-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augustus/pseuds/Augustus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The post-show afterglow. Richie's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beat

Your sweat sheen glimmers in the harsh, dressing room light, hair mussed from the exertion of the show. A bass beat thumps even now within my ears, twisting around the staccato drum-roll of my heart. I imagine we are alone, strip the room of tired friends and sparkling hangers on. No-one here to notice the faint pitter-patter of sliding glances, no one to smirk at that one damp curl of hair as it wavers down towards your brow. And I can see the vacuum in your eyes, feel the need shimmering between us, as the conversation swirls and restrains.

There is the throaty scent of smoke in the room, in the breath of passing mouths and connected blurring features. Enthusiasm and relief and the smooth heaviness of exhaustion. And you drape the couch like a golden decoration, here yet not here in your silent aestheticism. I murmur praises to you inside my mind and pray that you can hear. Your smile is for me. I feel it like I feel the stuffy stillness of this place and the restless heat within me.

In my imagination, I vanquish them, claim the hazy air for you and I alone. I swirl kisses across your eyelids, wrap myself in the exaltation of your embrace while the music swells around us in an immaculate invocation of the moment. The room stretches, triples, unfurls itself. I tangle your legs in mine, claim the salty dampness of your skin and knot sleepy fingers in the sagging spikes of your hair.

Beneath me you are hard and warm and near liquid in the post-concert afterglow. There is no need for frenzied sex, for the frantic slap and shove of hastily bared skin beneath the flickering neon light. The you-me-us is enough. I press lips to lips and trap your fingers in the snare of my hands, listening to the duet of our heartbeats. Jokeless, we laugh at the simplicity of the moment and I feel as though I wrap around you perfectly.

I believe you can see it too, glowing somewhere between us, hewn from the smoke and the congratulatory syllables. Your eyes tell me that you understand, that you also feel the tearing ache of the crowd. The toss of your legs is too casual to convince. Your jaw twitches when our gazes meet. I want to still the movement with my lips.

Raucous laughter becomes our soundtrack and we reach motionlessly towards each other, across the distance of the room. I picture you within my arms and I can almost feel the familiar murmur of your touch. A nod becomes a promise. The air stills. We wait.

**11th May 2002**


End file.
